My pulse is slowed by the tide
that sighs twice daily
over the sparkling mud,
a slow scatter of wading birds at its heels.

Inhale and brambles dot the hedgerow,
purpling our mouths -
exhale and the snowdrops are back,
advance guard of a trumpetting spring
as the circling bay holds the circling year
in its silver grey water.

Our house plays host
to dramas and dreams
but they are beautifully small
in the middle of this
and I have never been so at home.

The trees planted themselves decades ago
in preparation for our boys.
The sea rose and fell for shelled and pebbled eons
that there might be the perfect clatter
when Fergus leaps from the rocks and runs
into the waves
and if three cars go by
within an hour
we say, "Christ, it's busy today!"

This, and us, is home.

I always assume
that kids know how to be kids.
I'm sure we weren't taught the skills, were we?
No-one pointed to a tree and said,
"See that?  Climb it."
And if Craig or Chris or Jamie pointed a finger
and said, "Bang!",
no referee had to discreetly whisper
"You're supposed to fall down now."

But something as natural as breathing
is falling by the wayside.
These small humans aren't kids -
not like we were.
Company is a chore for them,
screen-seeking solipsists,
and I worry for their future, constantly.

If my six-year-old self
were to appear amongst them
he would stand, baffled,
full of useless power
Like Spiderman
on the Norfolk Broads.

I trained myself to hold my breath
beneath the surface of the nut-brown river
for three minutes and more.
My companions would watch
as I slipped from sight,
their own breath held as the seconds wore on.

Above and around them the riverbank was a lens
refracting a swarming jungle,
macaws paired and perfect splitting the blue,
tangles and torrents of green
and the liquid burble of oropendulas and caciques.
Why should anyone depart from this,
deliberately descend into the murk
for no more than a party-piece, a prank?

Because,
the river carried news,
the river throbbed with hidden life
it was the Andes and the ocean and all points in between
and down below the light and beauty
it was mine alone.

I hope one day
to write a poem
with no title
and no words
but I have a long way to go
before I'm good enough to try it